Flashes
by CaptainSammish
Summary: A series of Godric flashfics. Too long to be drabble, but not long enough to be proper full-length fics.
1. Chapter 1

A/N – As I stated in the description, this is going to be a series of unconnected Godric-related flashfics, a bit like drabble but for the most part, too long to qualify. If I have an idea for a Godric moment or conversation, I just write it. So here it is! If you have any ideas, hey, I'm open to that too. Drop me a line.

oOoOoOo

Godric has fed, for once. Isabel can tell because there is the lingering odour of fresh blood in the corridor, though without the usual accompanying tang of sex. She refrains from rolling her eyes at how pious Godric has become.

She knocks respectfully on his door and he opens it instantly. She has never quite gotten over how fast he is. She is about to speak when she notices his t-shirt.

In wide, green letters, it reads: _VEGETARIANS DO IT BETTER_.

She is speechless for only a second. "Vegetarians, Godric?" She has gotten very familiar with him, as of late. It is not long ago that she would not have dared to be so bold.

He looks down at the shirt, as though he has forgotten that he is wearing it. When he looks back up at her, he is smiling crookedly.

"I wanted '_I DON'T EAT ANYTHING WITH A FACE_', but that would be lying."

Every time Isabel thinks she is starting to understand him, he does something that makes her realize she has barely scratched the surface.


	2. Chapter 2

Godric can sense the wolves prowling in the darkness, though he cannot see them. The vampire before him silently watches him weigh his options. Eyes like pale stones glitter in the dark.

Godric looks up. The moon is full. For some reason, it makes him uneasy. "What do you want of me?"

The older vampire chuckles. The sound is out of place on this bitter winter night. "This is my territory. You should mind that tone." He smiles, but it fails to reach his eyes.

"I am passing through," Godric says. He does not normally feel the need to explain himself, but most of those who stand in his way are easy to dispatch. This vampire is old, so Godric treads carefully. "I will be a long way from here by dawn."

The pale-eyed vampire's smile broadens and his eyes wander downward. "You were born into slavery," he remarks, sounding as though the idea doesn't displease him.

Godric looks down at the blue ink that curls around his body. "You are mistaken," he says, an edge in his voice. "These are the marks of a warrior."

"That one isn't," the other vampire says softly, his eyes fixed on Godric's arm.

Godric looks down at it, too. "No," he says. "That one isn't."

The pale-eyed one smiles. "Not born, then. Sold." He draws out the word spitefully, as though he knows the shame it still stirs up after all this time.

Godric's eyes are hard. "I was not easily taken." The warning is implicit.

The elder vampire stares at him for a long moment. Then he erupts into laughter that he cannot seem to take control of. There is a faint warning of madness in it. Godric longs to be away.

At last, the laughter subsides and the vampire wipes the back of his hand against his eyes, smearing bloody tears across his face. "I could keep you as a pet," he says.

Godric tenses. He will fight to the death, if he has to. He has been owned before. It is not an experience he will repeat.

The pale-eyed vampire is still grinning. "How fortunate for you that I travel light." The wolves press closer in the dark winter night. Godric can smell filth and rotting meat. "Don't come back this way," the other vampire continues. "I'm never generous twice."

By the time Godric realizes he has been granted a reprieve, the other vampire is gone. The wolves are slower to follow suit, but eventually there is a far-off howl, and all is quiet.

Godric puts a hand to his chest, a reflex action to calm a racing heart that does no such thing. Wasting no time, he vanishes, too.


	3. Chapter 3

"_History is nothing except monsters or victims. Or witnesses,_" Steve Newlin said, quoting from somewhere. Godric was sure he had read it before, but he couldn't place it. Nevertheless, he knew that Newlin had it wrong; that there was no such thing as a person who was solely one thing or the other.

"I don't think that people are so easily put into boxes, Mr. Newlin." He was always polite, but distant; sometimes, Newlin wanted to shake him.

"No?" Newlin asked, smiling indulgently. He was often guilty of treating Godric like the young man he resembled. "I think _you_ can be. Tell me, how would you refer to yourself?"

"Oh, I am without a doubt a monster," Godric replied. "But I have been other things, too."

"A witness, I'll buy," Newlin said, though the tone in his voice implied that even that was hard to swallow. "But a _victim_?"

Godric studied him for a moment. "Mr. Newlin – how do you think monsters are born?"

"Why don't you enlighten me?" Newlin asked, sounding like someone waiting for a humorous punch line.

"Well, of course you know how vampires are made," Godric replied, ever courteous. "I was murdered. Many Makers acquire consent before undertaking the ritual. Mine did not."

Newlin let his surprise show in his voice. "Oh, I don't know if I'd use the term 'murder'."

"He held me down in the dark and let me bleed to death," Godric said. There was nothing in his voice to indicate that he was recounting a personal tragedy; he might as well have read about it in a newspaper. "If you have another term, I invite you to share it with me."

Newlin shook his head. He was at a loss, so he changed tack. "Regardless, this – _Maker_ didn't turn you into a full-blown serial killer."

"No," replied Godric, smiling humourlessly. "I did that all on my own."


	4. Chapter 4

When Godric heard her screaming, he was fourteen again, wholly alive and twisting viciously against bonds that would not give. Her voice was his mother's, and his sister's, and for him their cries went on and on until their voices gave out and then they died making no sound at all.

"Godric – it's _me_ – "

Gabe thought he was toothless and docile, a pet who grew attached to the humans who held him captive. Godric could barely contain his revulsion. In the twenty centuries of his existence he had killed often and brutally, but ending a life for the sake of survival was nature. Other moral lines should not be so freely crossed. The fate of his loved ones had taught him that.

Godric looked dispassionately into Gabe's wild, panicked eyes and thought: _You are not fit to live_. Killing him was akin to putting down a rabid animal. Godric took no pleasure in it.

He turned to the woman, who was flushed and dishevelled but unafraid. He marvelled at her bravery, though a cynical part of him wanted to call it foolishness.

"You should not have come."


	5. Chapter 5

Godric was looking forward to moving on. He didn't feel the slightest resistance to change; after all this time, no matter where he went, he had been there and seen everything before. He would also not be overly upset to leave behind the quiet hostility, half-hidden but decidedly present, that had been simmering here since he had declined the Kingship of Texas.

When he announced his decision, no one seemed surprised. Isabel nodded once, decisively, and Godric could tell that she was already making plans for the move. Stan, however, looked less than thrilled.

"What is it, Stan?" Godric inquired.

"Just don't know how I feel about Dallas, is all," Stan mumbled, while Isabel rolled her eyes.

"Dallas," Godric repeated.

After a few seconds, Stan realized that he was waiting for an explanation. He shrugged. "I was born in a small town."

There was a lengthy pause while Godric considered this.

"And you can breathe in a small town?" He inquired at last.

Stan started to laugh.

"Sometimes I swear that the two of you are twelve years old," Isabel sighed.


	6. Chapter 6

He sits at the same table every evening, in the diner that is just a few blocks down from his house. Godric likes it here because it is usually empty at the time he prefers to come, and because everything from the worn tablecloths to the tired waitresses seem, like him, to be a throwback to another era.

His favourite waitress is Irma, who competed in beauty pageants forty years ago. Her grandchildren live out of state and don't visit her. She has never asked if he is a vampire, though since they came out of the coffin, she has stopped asking him whether there's anything wrong with the coffee he always orders but never drinks. She seems to accept what he is, probably because she carries a great sadness and so does he. They are kindred souls.

Tonight, Irma is nowhere to be found. Instead, his waitress is a young lady with a tiny silver crucifix around her neck and too-new, squeaky rubber shoes. She almost spills the coffee all over herself in her haste to bring it to him. She is apparently new because she hasn't yet acquired the sulky shuffle that the other waitresses have adopted. Godric smiles encouragingly at her, but she does not meet his eyes.

He takes a rolled-up newspaper out of the pocket of his jacket, which is hung over the back of the chair, and spreads it across the table. He takes it in turns to read a variety of different newspapers, because he finds the evolution of human politics fascinating. Last night, it was the New York Post and Newsweek. Tonight it is the Washington Times, and the New York Times if he gets around to it. He is consistently amused by the different viewpoints they offer.

The papers take quite some time to get through, and Godric orders another coffee each time he senses the young waitress glancing his way. She does not ask why he continues to order coffee that grows cold next to him, but he sees her fingering her necklace nervously and knows that she has guessed the truth of it.

When he finishes his reading, he folds both newspapers neatly and leaves them on the table, as is his custom. Wrapping his hands around the most recent mug of coffee, he finds that it is still steaming and briefly enjoys the heat that seeps into his fingers. He knows that his waitress is trying to hover without appearing to, apparently worried that due to his status as a minion of evil, he is going to leave without paying his tab. So, he is not surprised when she makes an appearance as he is putting his jacket on.

"Thank you very much," he says, and holds out a tip worth twice what his bill comes out to. The waitress looks briefly startled as she takes the money; her fingers brush against his, and he knows that she was not expecting his hands to be warm.

He smiles. It is residual warmth from the coffee cup, but warmth nonetheless.

"I hope you have a lovely evening," he tells her. He does not need to turn around to know that she is watching him all the way out.


	7. Chapter 7

He stopped in the doorway.

Godric, who had not, to Eric's knowledge, ever been snuck up on by anyone, didn't seem to notice his presence. Eric found it intriguing.

He crossed the room silently and stood behind his Maker, looking over his shoulder at the notebook sitting before him. It was blank.

"I left it too long, Eric," Godric said, very quietly. He was apparently aware of his progeny after all.

"Left what?" Eric asked. Something in the elder vampire's tone made him uneasy.

"I meant to leave a record of my mother tongue," Godric explained. "There were not many scholars outside of the walls of Rome. It is not documented anywhere else."

Eric waited patiently for the rest of the explanation. He wanted to reach out to him, but Godric's sudden fragility warned him away.

"I have no recollection of it at all." The words seemed to be ripped from some place deep that Godric had never intended Eric to see. He smiled humourlessly, completely at a loss to express the ache in his heart. "I suppose I was naive to think that it would always be with me. I haven't spoken it in millennia. There was no one left with whom to speak."

Eric realized that he had never asked Godric about his native tongue. It had never occurred to him, so fluent was his Maker in the Old Norse Eric learned at his mother's knee.

"I am sorry," Eric said, and he meant it.

Godric understood. His smile was bittersweet. "So am I."

* * *

A/N - Okay, teeny tiny book reference here, from the part where Sookie thinks about how lonely it must be when no one speaks your language anymore. But otherwise I tend to ignore the existence of book-God(ric/frey).


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